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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29224071">underneath this table feels so good to me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transformatron/pseuds/Transformatron'>Transformatron</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Beauyasha Fic [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Critical Role (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Fluff and Smut, Consent Issues, Exhibitionism, F/F, Fingerfucking, Fluff and Smut, Glove Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Under-negotiated Kink, Unintentional Voyeurism, Vaginal Fingering, no Beta we die like Mollymauk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:01:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,964</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29224071</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transformatron/pseuds/Transformatron</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Yasha and Beau rub one out real fast.</p><p>Under the breakfast table.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Beauregard Lionett/Yasha</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Beauyasha Fic [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061897</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>219</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>underneath this table feels so good to me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wasn’t quite sure how to tag for this fic, so…</p><p>Please be aware: the sex in this fic starts consensually, but consent is revoked. This is respected, and there’s a discussion of boundaries. No one gets hurt, and there’s a happy ending! </p><p>Also - technically Lucian isn’t consenting to be a voyeur. It’s ambiguous whether he knows what’s going on – I’ll leave that up to you guys to interpret. But some folks might find that uncomfortable, idk? Look after yourselves!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Okay, so <em>maybe </em>Yasha starts it. Or at least <em>invites</em> it, with her grumbles about spending yet <em>another</em> night in the tower, surrounded by strangers. Forget everyone’s theories about the Nonagon; the only conspiracy here is what the universe has against granting her and Beau an hour of privacy.</p><p>Fjord offers his mist-making abilities. Beau’s solution to the problem… Well, that’s more pragmatic still.</p><p><em>If we don’t have any space to ourselves, </em>she whispers in Yasha’s ear, before they float down to eat with the yeti that first night in the Eiselcross wastes, <em>let’s make some. </em></p><p>A month has passed since, thick with stolen touches (anywhere, everywhere; clever fingers sneaking between Yasha’s furs). So – well. It’s not <em>altogether</em> surprising when the Nein take their places at the breakfast table, opposite the Tombtakers, and Beau claims the seat beside her. Just as it’s entirely foreseeable, as the cat-butlers deliver their platters (oatmeal topped with spring flowers; seedy muffins glazed in black-moss icing; a bowl of yoghurt-dipped bugs) for a hand to settle on Yasha’s knee.</p><p>Still, Yasha’s breath catches. She didn’t think Beau would…</p><p>Not today. Not after everything.</p><p>Beau glares at Lucian. Her eyes are puffy, red. No way near as crimson as the eye on the back of her hand.</p><p>The same hand which is – no mistaking it – squeezing Yasha’s thigh under the table.</p><p>Warmth seeps through Beau's thin leather glove. She starts slow: kneading the muscle. Plying tension from her, where Yasha’s still stiff from their interrupted sleep.</p><p>It might take a while to unwind her completely. What a night it was. Yasha passed out in front of the door, telling herself that if the Tombtakers attacked, they’d have to get through her first. But whatever evil infiltrated Beau and Caleb’s minds, she couldn’t stop it. She can’t hit it, or take a slash at it with her sword, or pick up her friends and fly far away. Helplessness sticks a knife in her gut and <em>twists</em>.</p><p>At least this (<em>Beau, cupping the curve of her quadricep, stroking feather-light up her inner thigh</em>) makes for a pleasant distraction.</p><p>Yasha inches her legs the <em>eensiest </em>bit further apart. Providing <em>just </em>enough space for Beau to slip between.</p><p>Beau takes her up on the offer. Still not looking at her. Oh no – her glare hammers nails into Lucian.</p><p>Because he might know.</p><p>He might be <em>watching.</em></p><p>Yasha... isn't sure how she feels about that. Sharing this with Beau is one thing. But him too? The entirety of the Sum Novum? Is a city of a thousand disembodied screams currently enjoying a very up-close-and-personal view of her crotch? Does she really want –</p><p>Beau traces the seam of her trousers. Her nails catch the stitches, even through her gloves. Like she might pluck Yasha apart.</p><p>Yasha’s sensitive at the tops of her legs. Always has been. Weak to Zuala’s kisses, the slide of Beau’s tongue. The little <em>pinch</em> Beau gives her, nipping the softest, tenderest meat of her thighs – <em>fuck. </em></p><p>Yasha’s breath hitches. She cuts off her moan like she’s beheading a serpent.</p><p>Not a sound.</p><p>She’s good at staying quiet. Especially for Beau.</p><p>How many nights have they spent entangled in the dome? Beau cuddled up behind Yasha, fucking her on her fingertips beneath the cover of their cloaks? Yasha usually ends up biting her own wrist, pulsing with the fear of discovery. Aware that whoever’s on watch could turn <em>at any moment,</em> witness her so undone, gyrating back, begging for it with her body alone–</p><p>But that fear never puts her off. Does it?</p><p>Why should it now?</p><p>Beau pinches again, opposite side. A white-hot pop of pain, like someone’s put out a match on her flesh. Beau softens it, sweetens it, as she trails her knuckles up and down.</p><p>Shame she’s not doing her usual thing: making light conversation while shooting teasing glances at Yasha. Today, Beau just looks at Lucian. Brows lowered. Jaw so tight her teeth must ache.</p><p>Despite the expression, her hand is gentle. It draws spirals up the curve of Yasha’s thighs, closer, closer. Rubbing the stretch of her trousers, where the fabric forms a taut, infuriating fold. <em>Right </em>over where she needs her most.</p><p>Yasha shuts her eyes, just briefly. She spreads herself wider.</p><p>Perhaps this is okay. If Beau needs this, if Beau wants this, if this is a rejection of whatever violating presence sunk into her while she slept… Yasha will let her have it. She understands that need, better than anyone. So, she bites the tip of her tongue. Scrunching her nose until the unease dissipates – <em>Lucian watching what is supposed to be theirs, and theirs alone - </em>and she lets herself sink back. Relaxing, relenting. Accepting Beau's touch.</p><p>It’s easy to drift. No one expects much conversation from her. She’s left to her own devices at breakfast – munching through her pot of bugs, sipping her tea. That’s bitter, overbrewed (Caduceus insists she’s a heathen for it). Half a teaspoon of honey stirred in.</p><p>Now though, the honey’s inside her. Runny and molten. It coats her innards in gold as Beau strokes her, slow and firm.</p><p>The rest of the Nein chat with the Tombtakers. Jester asks Cree about the Gentlemen. Fjord quizzes Lucian on their plans for the day. They all play the game: pretending everything is as it should be. Like two of them haven’t been marked by an ancient evil cult. Like Lucian didn’t know this would happen, the moment he gave Caleb that book.</p><p>Like he doesn’t know Beau’s teasing Yasha so divinely beneath the table. Even as Beau asks him to pass the jug of syrup, so she can pour it over her pancake stack.</p><p>Yasha clenches as Beau rolls her knuckles against the centre-line of her pants. She’s wet beneath them; leather slipping with each of Beau’s grinds. Frustration scratches. With the way her trousers stretch, she’d have to be in a fucking <em>split </em>for Beau to touch her properly…</p><p>Beau spears a slice of pancake. She chews noisily, nodding along to Fjord’s faux-casual interrogation of what the Tombtakers expect to find at Aeor. Yasha tries to follow – best stay in-the-know about such things. But the words blur, melting together. She can’t concentrate. Not on the topic of conversation. Not on the taste of her bugs, the <em>crunch </em>of shell between her teeth.</p><p>Not as Beau’s hand descends.</p><p>Yasha <em>shudders</em>. There’s this point where the crotch of her trousers tucks close to her body. Beneath the needy throb of her clit. Beau finds it. Tracing her, through the leather. Where she’s pulsing and slick.</p><p>Yasha shuts her eyes so they don’t roll back. She can’t rock her hips – wants to, <em>needs; </em>but no, no, they’ll <em>notice. </em></p><p>She locks her ankles around the legs of her chair instead. Gripping the base of the seat until it creaks. Unable to do anything but <em>sit </em>and <em>quiver. </em></p><p>Takes all her strength not to pant, gasp, moan, as Beau tickles so light at her lips.</p><p>They've never gone <em>this </em>far before. Not at the table. Beau usually draws away with as soon as she’s brought a flush to Yasha’s cheeks. A promise of more to follow.</p><p>But now… Yasha’s perched on the edge of the chair, practically straddling it, hips pushed forward as subtly as she can manage, <em>please, please, please –</em></p><p>Beau continues. A grazing, maddening touch. Yasha longs to squirm, rub roughly against her. To <em>hump </em>her seat, until it snaps or Beau has <em>mercy…</em></p><p>Then Beau slips the first button of her trousers from its loop.</p><p>Yasha’s breath turns to glue. Sticking halfway out her lungs.</p><p>The next button follows. And the next. And the last.</p><p>Gloved fingers trace zigzags on each inch of downy skin. Leather soft as sin. Leading down, down –</p><p>Shit. It’s one thing to take Beau’s fingers when the Nein are sleeping. Can she really – is she really going to let her? Here, in front of once-allies, turned-enemies?</p><p>With her cursed hand?</p><p>This time, Yasha’s shudder isn’t entirely pleasure.</p><p>Still, her mind whites when Beau nudges her clit. Yasha’s entire body flexes off the chair – <em>just </em>an inch, as much motion as she allows herself. Nostrils flaring. Ribs clutched tight on her heart; tight as the soaked clench inside her, as Beau creeps lower (and fuck, if Yasha sinks back, angles her hips, the calloused <em>tips</em> of Beau’s fingers might be able to tuck inside) –</p><p>“Angelblood.”</p><p>Yasha freezes. She’s at a strange counterpoint between slack and clenched. Like she might fall if she stands, but she has to keep her spine stiff as her sword. Otherwise she’ll find herself writhing, hips working of their own accord. Still, when she raises her gaze to Lucian,  Yasha tenses. All the way down to that tiny point of penetration, where Beau parts her tingling, slick-swollen lips.</p><p>“Me?” Her voice doesn’t quaver. Much.</p><p>Lucian nibbles a strawberry. His eyes are thin and cruel. Splashes from a fresh-slit carotid. “You look like you’re a hundred miles away.”</p><p>That smirk, that low-lidded stare… Is that knowledge? Suspicion? Or just <em>Lucian? </em></p><p>Yasha doesn’t know. She <em>doesn’t know</em>.</p><p>That delicious shame curdles into something colder, sourer. He’s not her friend anymore. He’s her <em>enemy. </em>And if he knows what she and Beau are to each other, won’t that give him more incentive to hurt her?</p><p>Put more of his eyes into her?</p><p>Take her away?</p><p>Another bite at the strawberry. Yasha hears the squish of sharp teeth, puncturing flesh. “Copper for your thoughts?” Lucian asks.</p><p>Beau watches him, too. Her bloodshot eyes narrow. She strokes Yasha again, tracing the velvety-soft rim of her. Sinking one finger in, in, in –</p><p>Yasha catches her wrist. Trembling, tight.</p><p>
  <em>No more. Please, not like this. </em>
</p><p>Beau (finally) looks at her, not Lucian. Her expression – Yasha knows it so well. Mostly from the mirror. Anger, exhaustion. The pain of having someone crack some sacrosanct vault of yourself, slither on in.</p><p>But as Yasha watches, all of that cedes to guilt.</p><p>Beau opens her mouth. She looks like might blurt something – an apology, an explanation? But friends and foes sit all around them. Yasha gives her head the tiniest shake.</p><p>Beau snaps her jaws shut. She eases her finger back out. Leaving Yasha damp and cooling, bare to the underside of the table.</p><p>“Well?” Lucian sprawls on his chair, one arm looped over the backrest. He plucks another strawberry from the dish. “Are you going to stare at me, or did you have something to say?”</p><p>Yasha cracks her gaze away. She spies a flash of her own pale belly below the table, a few white-tipped curls of hair. Her bare cunt throbs, heat ebbing. “You, uh. Have something on your face.”</p><p>Lucian scowls. He scrubs his smooth-shaved cheeks with the flat of his hand.</p><p>He has Molly’s vanity. He has Molly’s <em>everything</em>. Because Molly (<em>her </em>Molly) was the incomplete one. Lucian waited at the end of each of his roads, and Yasha cycles through loss and grief and hate whenever she looks into his eyes. She despises him almost as fiercely as she fears him (fears what he might do, what he might force <em>them </em>to do in retaliation). As desperately as she wants him back.</p><p>But she can’t let Beau use this against him. Of that, Yasha is sure.</p><p>She waits for conversation to germinate again - Veth offers Otis a 'cold-resistance potion', which, knowing her, is the same acid she tipped over Beau’s hand. Only then does Yasha quietly fasten her trousers. Not looking at Lucian, or Beau.</p><p>She finishes her bugs in silence. Beau emulates, albeit with pancakes. Back hunched, shoulders low. She doesn’t say another word. Not even as the cats clear the table and their combined factions stand, readying themselves for another hard day’s slog through the snow.</p><p>Yasha’s legs don’t shake as she shoves back her chair. Beau’s do, though. She wraps her arms around her midriff when she catches herself toying with her glove.</p><p>Yasha worries her lip. Ideally, she’d nip into the nearest bathroom before they head out. Going from <em>wet’n’horny</em> to <em>cold and decidedly not</em> isn’t the pleasantest experience in anyone’s trousers. Still, this… This takes precedence.</p><p>She catches Beau’s wrist before she can stalk over the balcony’s edge. Holding her back.</p><p>“Everything alright?” asks Fjord as he saunters past.</p><p>“I dropped an… ear piercing? A butterfly? Beau’s gonna help me find it.” Yasha gives her best nonchalant shrug. “Passive perception, y’know.”</p><p>Judging by Fjord’s raised brow, he’s not convinced. Equally, he isn’t dumb enough to linger. Veth might be – “Ooh, I’ll help too, Yasha!” – but Fjord plants a hand on her back, shepherding her away, into the slowfall-drop at the tower’s core.</p><p>“Catch us up when you’re ready.”</p><p>“Yeah. Right behind you.”</p><p>Yasha waits for their heads to sink below the level of the dining hall floor. Then and only then does she turn to Beau.</p><p>Her throat hurts. Sore like she’s spent a day tormenting her tonsils with the everwinter Eiselcross air. She’s unsure where she wants this conversation to go. Only that it needs to be had.</p><p>Thankfully, Beau kicks them off. “Sorry,” she mutters, in the direction of her boots.</p><p>Yasha rubs the back of her neck. “I – it’s okay.”</p><p>“Is it?”</p><p>“I mean. You stopped? Which – thank you, for. For that.”</p><p>Beau grits out a laugh. She tugs free from Yasha’s grasp. “<em>Don’t</em>. Please. You don’t need to say thank you for me stopping. Ever. I – I shouldn’t have taken it so far. I know that, I know…”</p><p>Her voice fractures. She crunches over herself, like those ab muscles she’s so proud of have all yanked tight.</p><p>Yasha chews her lip again. She drops one hand on Beau’s shoulder. When Beau remains hunched, she slides it down her back. Curling around her monk, enveloping her in a loose embrace.</p><p>Apparently, that’s the right choice. Beau <em>sighs</em>. She does that thing where she melts into Yasha’s bulk, so Yasha can loop both arms around her and pretend she’ll ever be enough to protect Beau from the world.</p><p>“I – I shouldn’t have – I just – I hate <em>this.</em>” Her fist rests against Yasha’s sternum, hard as a stone. “I hate it so fucking <em>much, </em>and I didn’t want him to think he’d won, and it was stupid but I just – I just…”  She’s shaking. Her voice wobbles just as hard. “I just wanted to prove my fucking hand was still <em>mine, </em>that I was still <em>mine, </em>but I should’ve thought about you and – Yasha, I’m <em>so </em>sorry…”</p><p>Yasha lifts Beau’s gloved fist. Stroking the ridged tendons, over the red eye she knows to be watching.</p><p>She hates seeing Beau cry. A part of her wants to take everything back. Should she reassure her? Tell her it’s okay; Beau can touch Yasha whenever and however she pleases?</p><p>No. Even if Beau was fool enough to believe her, that wouldn’t heal anything. Only leave a raw wound, festering beneath the surface.</p><p>Yasha doesn’t want that. They made a promise to each other, didn’t they? That, for once in their lives, they’re going to do this whole relationship thing <em>right</em>.</p><p>Maybe… it’s okay <em>not </em>to be okay with this. So long as Beau listens.</p><p>And Yasha trusts, Yasha believes, with the same conviction that fills her whenever thunder rolls across the horizon, that Beau always will.</p><p>“I know,” she says. Pressing a kiss to Beau’s knuckles, over the glove.</p><p>“But – but none of that matters. I shouldn’t have taken shit so far. I won’t do it ever again, Yash. Not unless you ask me.”</p><p>“Uhhh…” How to phrase this? “I actually liked the first part. Just. Not all of it. Can we…?”</p><p>Beau blinks at her. Her eyes are even redder than before, wet at both corners. “What? Set a boundary?”</p><p>“I guess? Next time you fingerfuck me under the breakfast table…” Yasha shifts foot-to-foot. “Can it be about… us? Not him? I – just, it doesn’t feel good, when it’s about hate.”</p><p>Beau ducks her head again. Her shoulders quake. For a moment, Yasha thinks she’s fucked up – until she hears that familiar high-pitched giggle. “<em>Gods.</em>”</p><p>“…What?”</p><p>“Sorry! Not laughing at you, promise. Just.” Beau’s grin is far from her brightest. But it’s there, when Yasha curls a finger under her chin and tilts her to the light. That’s what counts. “Can’t believe our first boundary is about <em>semi-public fingerbanging</em>.”</p><p>Yasha’s ears may have gone red. “I – yes. I suppose it is.”</p><p>Beau tangles their fingers. “Consider it duly noted.”</p><p>She sways onto her tiptoes. Yasha leans down so Beau can brush their lips. Such a delicate kiss. Spun sugar: that fluffy stuff Empire towns sell on festival days. Sweet as the syrup in Beau’s spit.</p><p>“Don’t worry, angel," Beau murmurs, as they part. "Next time I fingerfuck you under the breakfast table, it’ll be <em>all</em> about love.”</p><p>Yasha’s turn to laugh. There’s so much more she wants to say. Like how she knows Beau’s afraid (of her red eye tattoo; of Nonagon; of whatever she and Caleb have awoken). But it’s okay, because the Nein will fix her, and Yasha will do anything, give anything, to keep Beau safe. If Beau needs this veneer of confidence, though – this smirk she wears, like Nott’s old porcelain mask – Yasha won’t crack it.</p><p>She’ll whisper all this to her tonight, she decides. The next time she holds Beau in her arms.</p><p>For now, she kisses Beau again. Longer, slower, a twining of tongues. She draws back with one last stroke of her hand – over that hateful eye.</p><p>“I love you, too,” she says.</p><p>Then she walks away. Striding towards the balcony. Nursing a small, private smile, at how Beau sputters for a solid ten seconds – “Wait, what? Yasha, say that again! <em>What?” – </em>before jogging in pursuit.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comments are love! Also, please respect that I watched this episode this Tuesday/Wednesday, so I, uh, rubbed this out real fast, too. So, sorry for any mistakes!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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